Cecil Soil Magazine

Hair Cuts with Herb by Ed Belote Sr.

Herb Benjamin has been cutting hair in the town of North East, Maryland for more than forty-five years. His barbershop (just off the side of his tackle shop) has become a landmark, and all who visit appreciate Herb’s affable, witty personality. Getting a cut at Herb’s is like stepping back in time; almost like being in Mayberry – the friendship and laughter beckon you to come back for more. Push open that squeaky screen door – come on in and listen…

Summer 2006: Of mules and men...

Kem Oswalt was in the chair when William Cousins opened the door. Before he had a chance to step into the room, Herb announced, “You’re going to get a story now, Ed.”

“Here comes my boy… wait until you hear his line of stuff,” added Frank Astfalk, a retired New Castle, Delaware police officer.

As soon as Mr. Cousins stepped into the room, I asked for permission to record him for a “Hair Cuts” story.

“Go ahead,” he replied. “But you don’t need me…you got Frank Astfalk here and he’s got more bull than all four of us.”

The room broke out into laughter and I quickly injected, “That’s what Frank just said about you!”

Somehow the conversation drifted into politics and got stuck there for the next half hour, and as usual these types of conversations can become heated. But it’s interesting to see how new subject matter can suddenly be created out of the old… like the following…going from politics to mules.

“Harry Truman was the greatest president in the history of the United States,” began Frank Astfalk.

Someone else piped in, “God bless you.”

Frank continued, “He made more hard decisions than any president…he did an incredible job for a man with just a high school education. Someone asked Harry Truman how he got so much common sense and he replied, ‘I stared at the butt end of a mule for 12 years, plowing fields…you’ll learn a lot doing that.’” The room burst into laughter, which lessened the serious tone of the conversation, and mules became the next topic.

“You know what I heard about mules?” someone offered. “They’ll wait a hundred years to kill you.”

Frank shot back, “That’s right.”

The fellow continued, “It’s been known that a farmer may work with his mule for 20 years without any trouble, then suddenly that mule will take aim and kick him in head.”

“When I was a boy on the farm we had mules,” said William Cousins. “And only two men could handle them—an old man from West Virginia and a colored man by the name of Toby. They were the only ones who knew how to harness them up.”

“I worked a pair of mules on my uncle’s farm,” announced Herb. (This statement came as no surprise to me… I think ole Herb has done just about everything.)

“Harnessing up a pair of mules is a trick,” continued Herb. “It’s very complicated… you have those lines and straps crisscrossing all over. I cut hay and windrowed it using mules…this on my uncle’s farm, Ted Baliff, located in Bayview.”

“The guys down home…that’s what they hunt raccoon on,” said Frank. “Yeah, they would ride those mules and chase the raccoons through the swamps.”

As if wanting to top that story, the fellow that offered the 100-year adage earlier told this story; “When I was a kid living in Newark, during the late fifties there was this fellow who had a pet mule, fenced in on a couple acres. He never worked this animal, just enjoyed caring for him. Every evening when he came home from work, he would go directly to that mule and give him a cold bottle of beer…I enjoyed watching this because that mule would foam at the mouth, eyes bugged out, and would slurp it down greedily.

“Though I did not see this, it was my understanding that one day he walked out to the pen one evening without the customary bottle of beer. He reached over the fence and started petting that mule – stroking his ears, when suddenly this animal lurched and bit him in the chest. He was rushed to the hospital and needed a blood transfusion. I know that mule was not there the next day.”

I think at this point everyone got “muled-out” because William Cousins brought up a more positive subject matter…fishing.

“I want to say something about Herb’s son, Mike,” said William. “Last year I went out fishing with him a couple times and I cannot tell you how hard he worked and how professional he was. I have to go with a guide… I don’t know much about fishing.

“On one of our trips we drifted the flats with minnows… let me tell you, those Rockfish jumped on them. But what I really want to say is that I’m disabled and I brought along my nephew who was disabled in the Gulf War. My nephew couldn’t cast his line because of his injuries, but Mike set him drifting his minnow and he could do that…we had a ball.

“We were so appreciative of his Mike’s kindness I gave him a case of steel shotgun shells,” said William.

“The way Mike shoots, he’ll need every one of them,” cracked Herb.

This brought the house down and ended our visit on a very happy note.

Spring 2006: Herb gives a river lesson...

I arrived at Herb’s shop at about 9:30 a.m. and announced as I usually do, “Hair cuts with Herb!” Herb smiled from ear to ear and said, “Thanks for the warning, Ed.”

Mr. Henry Lee was sitting in the chair of honor and I could tell he was about done. Untying the apron from Mr. Lee’s neck, Herb announced, “That’s about as pretty as I can make you.” Mr. Lee climbed out of the chair, paid Herb and announced as he left, “I’m going fishing!”

Mr. Lee’s fishing announcement spurred some more fish talk in the room, and Herb introduced me to Charlie Starks from North East.

“Ole Charlie Starks here is a ‘Herring Dipper,’ Ed,” Herb stated, and I asked Charlie to tell me about his herring dipping.

“Oh, I go out there with my wife… we really enjoy it. We don’t try to dip for a whole bunch of them, we catch a few for fresh eating.”

“Let me tell you about Charlie and his wife,” said Herb. “You don’t see a husband and wife do things like this together anymore.”

“Herb taught us how to catch them and also how to fillet them,” added Charlie and then he changed the subject: “What do you think about all that bad news they’re writing about the Rockfish in the papers?”

Herb told us how his son Mike had a theory on that: “In the lower part of the bay they have “pound nets” (a fish trap consisting of netting strung along poles funneling fish into a narrow trap) and when the rockfish get in there and roll around, it scrapes a lot of their protective slime off, and they get infected with sores. They have to release all the rockfish because they are out of season.”

As heads nodded in agreement, Herb continued, “If you scratch your arm and stick it in that river, I guarantee you’ll get an infection…the key to the health of the upper bay where we are at is the grass growing in the river and the flats. And the grass is coming back… 10,000 acres in the flats and it’s growing every year. “Back in the late 1960s they poisoned the grass to kill it because it was making it difficult for the skiers and boaters,” he added.

Someone chimed in, “How could they do that?”

“Well, they just didn’t know…back then,” Herb answered. “The grass was starting to come back when Hurricane Agnes hit… 1972 I think, and dropped about 18 inches of silt in the flats - that was the end of the grass for a long time. Now we understand how important this grass is… it’s the great filter; millions of baitfish hide there and the game fish gorge on this bounty and spawn there.”

Talking over the noise of the clippers, Herb added, “I wish that grass could make Herring grow back.”

Someone quickly shot back, “Make hair grow back?”

Everybody started laughing.

“No, no, I mean Herring come back,” said Herb laughing loudly. The humor was magnified because the gentleman in the chair sported a thin crop of hair.

Once the “herring” laughter died down, George (Jay) Pedrick from Victoria Park, North East climbed into the seat of honor. He immediately engaged in conservation and I could see his demeanor was quiet and gentle.

“Ed,” Herb started, “Mr. Pedrick here, is a World War II veteran… he’s been around.”

“How old are you Mr. Pedrick,” I asked.

“If you ask me a month from now, I’ll be 91, and people are still not afraid to let me drive them places,” he said. “I was at the hospital the other day and when I finished my exam, the nurse said, ‘You’re done Mr. Pedrick, is your driver ready?’ I laughed and told this young lady, ‘I drive myself!’” The room started chuckling and you could see Mr. Pedrick was enjoying himself… he was all smiles.

“Let me tell you about this good man,” said Herb. “When he was in the War, he went from Private to Captain in five years.”

Wows and slow whistles filled the room.

You could tell Herb was proud of this local hero because he added, “Mr. Pedrick was involved in eight campaigns during World War II.”

“I cannot remember all the campaigns, but I was there at the invasion of Africa, Sicily and Normandy to name a few,” said Mr. Pedrick.

When I asked him if he was ever wounded, he replied, “I saw a lot of men, some standing right beside me, killed. God took care of me. I saw a lot of action, but the only time I got hurt was when a bunch of us were playing volleyball and I sprained my ankle.”

Herb’s little shop exploded in laughter… one couldn’t help but to be endeared to this sweet, elderly character.

“The hardest thing for me during the war was being separated from my wife. We were married for only eight months before I shipped out… then I didn’t get to see her for three more years… now, that was tough,” Mr. Pedrick said.